“Black?”
“Red—first.”
“Oh-h!” mused the poacher. “When does France hoist that new red flag?”
“When Paris falls.”
The poacher rested his chin on his doubled fist and leaned forward across his gathered knees. “I see,” he drawled.
“Under the commune there can be no more poverty,” said Tric-Trac; “you comprehend that.”
“Exactly.”
“And no more aristocrats.”
“Exactly.”
“Well,” said Tric-Trac, his head on one side, “how does that programme strike you?”